


you are a call to motion

by naimeria



Series: yours [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Anxiety, Canon Era, Gen, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sickfic, we're getting there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:35:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26063566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naimeria/pseuds/naimeria
Summary: John can’t look at him. Wants to roll over, bury his insecurities and foolish doubts in their threadbare blanket and never emerge. But he’s a man of the Continental Army, and he has one of it’s most outspoken Lieutenant Colonels at his side, so running will not do. He’s never been a man to run from anything, but now, Alexander’s dark gaze haunts him; he is torn between staring him down to remind himself of the life within, or to avoid it altogether, to hide his folly.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Series: yours [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1886923
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dæmon list:  
> Hamilton: Lenora (Wolverine)  
> Laurens: Adonia (Jaguar)

Candlelight brings to life shadows throughout the tent, bobbing and weaving against the backdrop of war. Alexander Hamilton sits and writes, as is his way, ink on his sleeves and a cramp in his hand he’s ignored for nigh an hour. Lenora lays at his side, eyelids drooped and deceptively soft fur laid flat in their calm. The wolverine doesn’t perk up until footsteps approach the tent, and though Alexander takes no notice, she rises and moves to the snowy entrance in greeting. 

And it is a greeting, as Adonia enters in front of her John Laurens, shoulders sloped and eyes dulled. The gaze turns fond as he sees Alexander illuminated by flame, hair across his shoulders and attention still firm upon the parchment. Adonia chuffs and rubs one cheek against Lenora’s muzzle, an affection familiar to them. Lenora rumbles deep in her chest, and only then does Alexander look up, blinking as if breaking from deep thought, only to smile at John. 

John, whose chest is already warmed by the affections of their daemons, and now by the genuine happiness set upon Alexander’s face. He cannot help but smile back, removing his cloak and dusting off the last unmelted vestiges of snow as he does. Jaguar and wolverine settle at the foot of Alexander’s cot, curled around each other; the men will not acknowledge the weariness they bear like a second cloak, but their daemons seem to have no qualms, and soon they are dozing together, Lenora’s jaw resting on the cot while Adonia’s rests in her thick fur. 

“Almost done?” John asks, when he sits in the only other chair to remove his boots. His voice comes out hoarser than he’d like, and he coughs once to clear it. It’s tight in his chest, and he dreads the prospect of sickness. Alexander has only just gotten over his own, and as Alexander turns sharply, it seems their thoughts are along the same path. 

“Are you feeling well, Laurens?” Alexander asks, tone brooking no diversion as John opens his mouth to do just that. 

“Fine,” he says, an obvious dismissal. Nodding to the parchment, he repeats his question, a brow raised. 

Alexander huffs, ever bull-headed, but concedes. “Enough for tonight.” He rubs absently where thumb meets palm, and John can see it is quite red even in the dim light. “His Excellency will doubtless need it in the coming days.” 

“This isn’t tomorrow’s report?” John knows the answer, and judging from the way Alexander scowls, he knows he is caught. 

“Rations.” 

“That is expected every fortnight, Alexander. That is days away.” The words are accusatory, but the tone is not, merely a statement he expects the latter to acknowledge. And he does with a shrug and a stiff nod. 

“More come in every day. To fall behind is to disappoint our General.” Alexander is near to pouting, and John smirks, standing now in his underclothes. 

“We can’t have that.” He is teasing, and they both know it. He softens the blow by reaching out to Alexander, taking his overworked hand in his and rubbing away the aches of the day. A sound unfamiliar to him sneaks it’s way past Alexander’s lips, but John finds he likes it. 

Guiding him over to their cot, he moves to sit the man down, taking in his pallor and smudges that constitutes his complexion. It takes him several moments to realize Alexander is doing the same, and apparently his assessment has been found wanting. 

“You’re sure you are well, John?” 

Despite the desire to not be doted on, John smiles. Were it anyone else, it would be a weakness to find shame in, but the compassion that Alexander bears for him so plainly dilutes it to something sweeter. “Well as I can be with this blasted winter. And you? Your sickness is held at bay?” 

Alexander pulls his hand from John’s grip so quickly it startles him, and he jumps. The man does not seem to notice, too wrapped in his own frustration. “It has been three weeks, I am fine.” 

John is too tired to fight for once, so he just stares at Hamilton for a moment, before leaning back and resting his aching shoulders against the cot, breathing out once, long and shallow. It’s not something he’s done to intentionally insight guilt, but when Alexander settles next to him, still fully clothed he thinks that’s what he’s done. He breathes again, the pull in his chest less from impending illness and more from remembered anxieties. 

“I’m sorry,” Alexander says after a poignant enough pause. 

John wrinkles his nose against a stray hair of Alexander’s, wonders why he’s forgotten to let his own loose. It aches a bit against his skull. “We worried for you,” he says after a moment, and his throat sounds too rough again. “The Marquis looked as though he was carrying a dead man.” 

To be true, the following week had not been much better. The fever had made Alexander near mad, tossing and turning and burning as he did. John had gotten too close to acceptance with facing his grief, right before the fever broke and Alexander looked at him with some semblance of recognition. 

“I know,” Alexander says, and his breath is hot against John’s neck. John himself watches the meager ceiling flutter with the candle’s light, whereas Alexander clearly finds his face more interesting to behold. 

Suddenly, his eyes are burning, and he blinks, overcome. Adonia makes a sound, nose still buried in Lenora’s fur, and the wolverine curls closer, as though she can chase away their worries. 

“Hey,” Alexander says, and rests his writing hand across John’s chest. Thoughtless, John takes the hand in his own again and resumes his massage, the muscle still stiff, as he tries to take back his own derailing emotions. Absurdly, he thinks of his father, and blinks away his disappointment, his callous words. 

“John.” 

He can’t look at him. Wants to roll over, bury his insecurities and foolish doubts in their threadbare blanket and never emerge. But he’s a man of the Continental Army, and he has one of it’s most outspoken Lieutenant Colonels at his side, so running will not do. He’s never been a man to run from anything, but now, Alexander’s dark gaze haunts him; he is torn between staring him down to remind himself of the life within, or to avoid it altogether, to hide his folly. 

His mind’s eye sees Alexander, face up in the snow, eyes glazed and cheeks hollow, and he gasps. 

“Oh John,” Alexander says, rolling so his front is pressed completely to John’s side, their hands still clasped. “I’m right here, John, I’m well.” 

John’s eyes pinch closed and he feels the heat spill over, down his cheeks, to pool in his ears. This is folly. 

“Look at me, John.” 

He sees nothing but the darkness of winter behind closed lids, Lenora’s fur dulled and tattered, Alexander’s hands weak as they claw for breath. 

“Laurens.” 

The strength of his family name shocks him to awareness, and he inhales like a drowning man, lips dry but chest aching as though full of seawater. He realizes he’s clutching on to Hamilton’s hand with unnecessary strength, the bones creaking, and he lets go as if burned. Their grip is not parted, however, as Alexander holds fast, and his mouth presses against his throat, a warm point of contact that has John shivering in his smallclothes. He becomes aware once more that Alexander is still fully dressed, as if he could rise at any time and leave John to his machinations. 

The thought terrifies him but he does not react to it, already too embarrassed for any further action. 

“Laurens, my Laurens,” Alexander murmurs against the cord of his neck, and John goes from cold to hot all at once. “It’s alright, you’re alright. I’m sorry, that was foolish of me, and inconsiderate.” 

John lets his breath shudder out of him, and he leans to tuck his cheek against the crown of Alexander’s brow. “I was not at my best, when you were ill,” he admits, shivering again. 

Alexander’s lips curl into a smile against his neck, and it feels like a brand. “But I am no longer.” 

“No, you are not.” The acknowledgement knocks something loose in John’s chest, and he feels he can breathe again. “I’m sorry for my foolishness.” 

“John, would you not look at me?” 

Realizing his eyes have remained shut, he opens them, blinks the vestiges of tears away, and looks down at his Alexander, who gazes up at him with such unfiltered affection that it aims to take John’s breath away once again. 

“Grief is not foolishness. To let yourself not feel it is the true folly.” 

Alexander says this with such certainty, his neck craned so he can hold John’s gaze, and John can’t help but believe him. So rarely does Alexander lie to him, and never about something he finds important. 

The fact that he firmly believes Alexander finds him important is not lost on John. 

“If only such notions were widely felt,” he says, but his grip on Alexander’s hand strengthens in gratitude. 

“Indeed. And in truth, too many men limit their hearts on a wide manner of things. To love is not folly, either.” 

John’s gaze drifts to their daemons, who remain steadfastly curled around one another. Adonia’s tail twitches, and she opens her eyes to blink at him once, before chuffing and pressing her face deeper into Lenora’s wiry fur. They are a reminder, John knows. An affirmation of their true feelings come to light. 

He cannot within him find shame in the comfort of the man beside him, merely peace. 

“Has anyone ever told you you have a way with words, my dear Alexander?”

He grins, looking pleased. His mouth returns to John’s neck. 

“Once or twice.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You will never be nothing, Alexander,” John murmurs, taking one of his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the soft knuckles there. “You fought, and you won, and you’ll keep fighting. As will I.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daemon list:  
> Hamilton: Lenora (wolverine)  
> Laurens: Adonia (jaguar)

The illness that John had so resolutely ignored arrives with the subtlety of a gunfight, and soon he’s laid out at all hours of the day, shivering and coughing and aching. His fever remained low on the first day, the tightness in his chest his chief ailment, but when he’d emerged in the night for water and his halting gasps woke Alexander from a dead sleep, he was chastised and limited to bedrest. 

Now, his skin burns and his chest feels stuffed full of cotton, but he has his senses if not much else. Adonia is, as with all things, his closest companion, curled by his side when he shivers and licks away his sweat when he is overheated. 

“Soon every man will be subject to this blasted fever,” Alexander grouses, doing his utmost to write enough for the both of them (a sentiment that has John bristling with self-reproach). He knows he doesn’t mean it as a personal slight, but John still huffs through his congested nose. 

“You were not at fault for your illness, my good man,” John says, and he frowns at how coarse his voice sounds. 

“Hush, you,” Alexander mutters, distracted, then he sighs, rubs the back of his wrist over his forehead. There’s ink where his hair is pulled back, and John has the absurd urge to lick his thumb and wipe it off. As it stands, he cannot hope to move, so he busies himself with staring at it. “Just as you are not at fault for your own.” 

There was too long a gap for John’s fractured thoughts to keep up with Alexander’s meaning. “What?” The question is punctuated with a pathetic sniffle, and John is duly mortified.

Suddenly Alexander’s stiff expression melts away to a wry sort of amusement. He rises from his station and deposits himself at John’s side. “My clever Laurens, silenced by a chest cold.” 

John scowls even as Alexander’s humor deepens, no doubt enjoying the petulant furrow in his brow. But as John opens his mouth to tell Alexander exactly where he could take his good mood and shove it, all that emerges is a deep chest cough that gives way to two, and three, until he’s hunched over himself red in the face and struggling for air. The tent is loud with the cacophony, his coughs getting rough and rougher until it feels like his throat is coming up too. There are what feel like too many hands holding him up, brushing his hair aside, rubbing his back, and for a moment John thinks this is it, he’ll never recapture his breath, he’s going to die on this godforsaken cot in a feeble attempt at telling off his closest friend. 

But the world is not done with him, and after several minutes he all but collapses into the firm grip holding him up, sweat drenching his face and chest aflame. Adonia is pressed against his thigh, shaking like a leaf. Lenora’s front paws are pressed against the edge of the cot, her short muzzle pressed against Adonia’s cheek in a feeble attempt at comfort. She’s making a sound John’s never heard before, and wonders dimly if that’s what a stressed wolverine normally sounds like. 

“That’s it, there’s my good man,” Alexander murmurs close to his ear, his too many hands still cradling and reassuring him as John struggles to regain control of his lungs. He opens red-rimmed eyes to look up at Alexander, and the man doesn’t have enough time to hide the acute fear lining his face. He tries, though, and in the next moment he’s smiling down at John. “You’re alright.” 

Unable to speak for the band of pressure still on his chest, he nods tiredly before leaning and spitting gracelessly over the side of the cot. He doesn’t look to see how Alexander feels over his loss of tact, but groans and lets his head hang, panting in the cold morning air.

“John,” Alexander says, sounding a bit alarmed. John doesn’t understand why until he looks at the spot of dirt and phlegm, and sees it is darker than it should be. 

“It’s fine,” he says, and his rough voice backs up his claim, “just tore up my throat.” When he lays back and out of Alexander’s grip, John catches him fiddling with his fingers, picking at the cuticles of his thumb in tense silence.

The quiet extends far beyond what either of them are used to, Alexander clearly worked into a state, and John too exhausted to try and help. Right about when John feels well enough that he could string along a few sentences to try and assuage Alexander’s fears, the latter speaks, still staring at his knuckles. 

“I don’t remember much of when I was ill,” he starts, and the silence when he pauses is arresting. John waits, his wheezing breath the only thing punctuating the quiet. It’s not often Alexander speaks of his troubles, and he’s not about to interrupt. He glances at Lenora, but she’s still silently watching Adonia, dark eyes rapt. Adonia licks Lenora’s clawed paw once, and Alexander exhales. “The consuming heat, unable to get reprieve. The dreams, of a barren desert filled with enormous skeletons, of being trapped in tunnels that went deep underground. Of-” and here Lenora leaves Adonia to climb into Alexander’s lap, deep rumbles rising from her chest as his voice breaks. He sinks into the thick ruff of Lenora’s fur to seek comfort, but John cannot see his gaze, only his shoulders and the curve of his cheek. “Of my mother, looking down at me with apathy as I wasted away to nothing.” 

Alexander does not look up from his daemon, fingers motionless in her fur, and John feels something knock loose in his chest. Sitting up is an effort, and Adonia nudges at his back when he feels his muscles rebel, helping push him up the rest of the way, his throat remaining mercifully clear of agitation. 

Alexander jumps, realizing John has moved, and looks over with raw concern, too emotionally compromised for any attempt at filtering out his expression. John shares the sentiment, and knows his face reflects the grief he shares with Alexander. There is no pity, merely compassion. 

“You will never be nothing, Alexander,” John murmurs, taking one of his hands and rubbing his thumbs over the soft knuckles there. “You fought, and you won, and you’ll keep fighting. As will I.” 

It’s about all he can manage, throat tight once more, but Alexander seems to take strength from his words. Eyebrows pinched, he smiles past the grief, gaze returning from the Hell they’d wandered into. He raises the hand still held gently in John’s grip and presses his lips to the top of John’s hand, breathing a sigh on his knuckles as his eyes flutter shut. John’s are wide open, staring with something close to awe at the man beside him. What has he done in his life to deserve such care, such heedless devotion? 

“As long as we fight together, my dear Laurens, I quite think there’s nothing we can’t do.” 

John gazes at their joined hands and blinks, knowing if he looks at Alexander’s eyes he’d be hard pressed to ever look away. 

Though much larger than Lenora, Adonia makes a valiant attempt at mirroring the wolverine daemon as she climbs into John’s lap, her front half and large head resting on his thighs, chest rumbling with deep purrs that never make a sound. Her nose is an inch from Alexander’s own thigh, whiskers tickling Lenora’s fur; if Alexander weren’t wearing pants, John is sure he would feel Adonia’s warm breath against his skin. Both watch the daemons for a moment, marveling at how lucky they are to be alive here and now, until John can smother the lurking cough tickling at his throat no longer. Adonia doesn’t move from her post as he shakes with each chest-rattling cough, his discomfort radiating through her and eliciting a feline groan that has Lenora shifting so she can keep watch. Alexander’s hands are back with him, bracing as he coughs his way into dizziness, what little sense left to him is concerned with potentially getting Alexander sick all over again. 

By the time his coughing has subsided, he’s panting in the cool air, head hanging between his shoulders. Alexander rubs his back in consistent circles, and Adonia is a warm quivering weight in his lap. 

“More rest, I think,” Alexander murmurs close to his ear, warm breath tickling his neck. John wants to protest, but his vision is hazy and his body feels like it’s a separate entity, and if he speaks again he might never stop coughing. Giving himself bodily over to Alexander’s ministrations is easy, the easiest in the world, and by the time his limp form is lowered onto the cot, Adonia heavy and warm on his legs, John is all but unconscious. 

“John,” Alexander says his name almost as if it’s a question. 

John wants to answer, wants a lot of things, but his breath is still elusive, and the tent walls give way to darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i! love! sick! fic!


End file.
